


Ma Mystere

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, F/M, Genderswap, Heist, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Ex-art thief Marcail Kane slips away from the rest of her crew for an auspicious art auction...that turns into an art theft that no one seems to believe she wasn't a part of. Her partner shows up unexpectedly, and together they most solve the mystery before they go down for it.





	Ma Mystere

**Author's Note:**

> The required tropes for this round were (1) Genderswap (2) Mystery (3) Almost kiss/interrupted before kissing (3) ship shares something (4) biased flashbacks (5) pick a trope--I chose a TV Show AU, specifically one of my favorite shows: Leverage! This reads like a novelization of a Leverage episode, but with genderswapped!Kabby instead of Nate and Sophie. The characters are t100 and the plot is leverage, but I had fun putting them together and embellishing ♥

Marcail tilted her glass to the side, the reisling swirling just under the rim of the glass as she surveyed the backyard of the estate. It was a pretty enough day—the sun shining over the garden, the clinking of silver on china, the haze of early-afternoon drinking settling over the wealthy guests. 

In a past life, it would’ve been the perfect day for a heist. 

But today, she wasn’t working. The rest of the crew was held up in DC, and half an hour ago, she’d convinced Gale to go to a film festival down in Portland, leaving the Woods Gallery Auction entirely to her.  

A brunette young woman stepped onto the patio balcony; Marcail pressed her lips into a smile as she donned the alias with which she’d introduced herself to the docent. 

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Collins,” the girl gushed, as she made her way across the room towards Marcail. “I’m afraid most of the art has already been sold.”

Marcail waved a hand easily. “No, no, you misunderstand. The London Museum of Art isn’t looking to acquire any of the works; I just want to view these beautiful paintings.”

“I understand,” the girl’s expression softened. Her name was Gina; she was the curator of Theo Woods’ private collection, had been since grad school. “I’ve been the curator of Mr. Woods’ collection since I was in grad school.”

Marcail also knew the girl’s medical history, allergies, and her favorite cocktail. 

(A gimlet.) 

A wistful look entered Gina’s eyes as she continued. “Theo made my career. To see this collection broken up just weeks after his death is—”

“I know,” Marcail clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Why would the family want to do that?”

“Liar!”

It wasn’t Gina who spoke, but a woman in an ill-fitted dress and frizzy hair, a martini in each hand, yelling over her shoulder at another woman in a bespoke pantsuit. 

“Theo wanted  _ me _ ,” the martini-woman spat, “to live in the guest house.”

“He’s gone,” said the pantsuit, in a tight voice, “and I want you gone as well. Come on.”

There was as polite a scuffle as could be had amongst champagne glasses, and Marcail turned back to the curator for an explanation. 

“His daughter,” Gina sighed. “She can’t cash the checks fast enough.”

“Bit of a lush, isn’t she,” Marcail wrinkled her nose, grateful for the London accent that let her use such fun turns of phrase. 

Gina snorted. “Actually, the one guzzling gin is Theo’s fourth ex-wife, Nia. His daughter’s the one in the suit...I should probably steer them away from the other guests; would you excuse me?”

Marcail inclined her head, and Gina sped away. 

“I’m sorry,” there was a voice at her elbow, and Marcail turned to find a tall man, peering at her with an intensity that belied his soft voice. “I know this sounds cheesy, but have I met you before?”

It was beyond cheesy, but Marcail smiled politely anyways, raising a demure hand to her hair and shifting her posture slightly. This was the late billionaire’s son, after all, she wanted to make a good impression. “No,” she spoke softly, her voice rounder than it’d been for Gina. “I don’t think so. Lady Covington-Smythe.”

“Charmed,” the younger man smiled, and Marcail got the impression that that smile would work on women who’d seen less of the world than she. “Roan Woods.”

“Oh, Theo’s son!” Marcail mixed surprise with empathy in her voice. “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”

Roan nodded, stoic. “He was sick for a long time...at least we got close over the last year.”

“Well,” she smiled kindly, “a father and son should leave nothing unsaid at the end.”

A throat cleared behind them; Marcail and Roan both turned to see a man, bowing at the waist, looking pointedly at Marcail’s wine glass. 

“Oh,” she accepted the full glass the man offered. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

“With the mister tragically passed,” the man said, on a voice like gravel, “I have little else to do, madam. I prefer to serve.”

He made his exit as rapidly as his appearance, and Roan shook his head after the retreating figure. 

“That’s Titus,” he explained. “My dad’s manservant for 20 years.”

“Manservant?”

“Yeah. Do you know I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere—”

“I doubt that.”

Marcail nearly choked on the wine when a new voice chimed into the conversation. 

Roan looked around, but Marcail didn’t need to turn to find the broad shoulders and green eyes that were supposed to be an hour away, happily engrossed in a noir film festival. 

“Her ladyship,” Gale continued, unbothered, inviting himself into the conversation with ease, “dealt with your father’s overseas division.”

“Oh.”

Roan looked between Gale and Marcail, Gale looked like he hadn’t a care in the world, and Marcail worked very very hard to not shoot daggers at him. “Well,” the young man said, uncertainly, “I guess I’d better be--”

“Of course,” Gale smiled broadly, easily, and his expression turned genuine when Roan backed out of the conversation.

“Oh you think you’re clever,” Marcail whispered, once he was out of hearing range. 

“Ah,” Gale stretched his shoulders a bit, one of his hands worked into his suit pocket, and the other reaching for her glass, “I guessed your location as a random event, within a 100-mile radius, in under 20 minutes; I’ve had worse mornings. Is this a German riesling?”

“New Zealand,” Marcail muttered, knowing she was being petty, but not at all bothered by it. “How did you find me, exactly?”

“Why’d you lie to me?” Gale countered, and Marcail’s eyes narrowed. She had her reasons, but none that she was willing to divulge in the middle of a backyard gala before a million-dollar art auction. 

“Just like old times, hmm?” she took her glass back as she looked over the gardens. “Me in the dress, up to my neck in easy marks and valuable art, and you show up, all serious—”

“There’s a distinct lack of you telling me why you lied in that speech.”

“There was, wasn’t there,” Marcail mused.

Gale huffed. “Why is a grifter/art thief—”

“Ex-art thief,” she muttered, just for argument’s sake.

“— at a high end art auction?”

“Asks the insurance cop.”

“Ex-insurance investigator,” he corrected, just for argument’s sake, and raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

Marcail pursed her lips, not wanting to hold his gaze. She was good at what she did, the best, actually, but some of that confidence wavered when Gale Griffin was involved. 

“It’s...a personal thing,” she said reluctantly, taking a sip of the shared wine, and though it sounded like another stall, it was as close to the truth as she could comfortably go. “I’m a fan of his work.”

“Theo Woods? The tycoon?”

“Jean Mettier, the artist,” Gina beamed, addressing the crowd gathered in the grand entryway of the Woods mansion, surrounded by priceless works of art, “was the greatest artist of the French retro school. His brief career was cut tragically short, with his untimely death in 1989. Since then, Theo Woods painstakingly assembled the single greatest collection of Mettier in the world. Thanks to his daughter, Lexa, the new CEO of Woods Industrial, and the hard work of the Woods family lawyer, Mr. Charles Pike, we can now share this collection with other discerning art aficionados. ”

“There,” Marcail said quietly, as the other guests applauded politely, “I’m just a fan of Mettier; where else could I have seen so much of his work? But now that the auction’s over...”

“That’s all?” Gale asked, knowing it wasn’t. 

“That’s all,” Marcail replied, and she almost had him convinced when Charles Pike stepped forward. 

“Of course,” the man boomed, “that’s not all.”

Gale looked delighted, and Marcail resisted the urge to cross her arms. 

“What’s left,” Charles continued, “is  _ Ma Mystere _ . Would those of you who have purchased a special pass, please join us in the vault anteroom.”

They fell in with the crowd shuffling out of the foyer. Marcail bumped against an elderly man, and Gale stumbled into a trust fund kid in a Harvard blazer; they presented their tickets at the bottom of the stairwell, and could just hear the confusion upstairs when two guests realized they’d misplaced their passes. 

“So,” Gale’s voice was low as they followed the rest of the group, “ _ Ma Mystere _ .”

“Jean Mettier’s legendary first painting,” Marcail explained, in a hushed voice. “There aren’t any pictures of it, or reproductions; it’s never been sold or exhibited. He described it as his inspiration...that it belonged to no one but him.”

She felt Gale’s eyes on her, trying to decide if the wistfulness in her voice was part of a con or genuine. 

“And you’re here to steal it?” he asked, after a moment. 

It shouldn’t have stung, but it did; she scowled at him. “No, I told you: it’s personal.”

She was saved from answering as the party ambled to a stop before a sealed vault door. In front of it, Gina, Lexa and Charles exchanged a look before Lexa stepped forward.

“For over twenty years,” she began, her voice smooth and even, “since he acquired this painting after the artist’s death, my father has come down to this room to look at the painting every day. Now, Mr. Pike will open the vault, and you will be the first to see what inspired a genius.”

A quiet reverence seemed to fall over the room, and Charles stepped forward, breaking the seal on a white envelope. 

He typed the code into a pinpad by the door of the vault. 

It opened with a satisfying release of the seal.  

The crowd gasped, and Marcail felt Gale’s hand on her back as he stepped closer to her; chills spread up her arms. 

“My god,” Pike whispered. “ _ Ma Mystere’s _ been stolen.”

The vault was empty. 

Gale pulled and she followed; they slipped up the stairs, feet echoing on the marble. 

“A world-famous painting goes missing,” Gale said under his breath, “and, oh look, here’s a world-famous art thief, just around the corner.”

“ _ Ex _ -art thief,” Marcail pulled her wrist back. “And I didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, I was standing right next to you, and I barely believe that.”

They were almost to the door, stepping around champagne trays and Dior gowns. 

Gale shook his head. “But if someone like—”

“Hello, Griffin.”

They both stopped. 

Gale’s shoulders  dropped a little, but they both had pleasant smiles fixed on their faces when they turned. 

“Jaha,” Gale greeted his old partner. 

Who wasted no time in directing them to a billiards room, with pointed looks at a couple suits near the door to ensure Marcail and Gale knew they were outnumbered. 

“Give us back the painting,” Jaha said, as the doors closed, “and save yourself a bother, Miss—still going by Kane?”

“Still interpol’s puppet?” Marcail shot back, and it wasn’t her best response, but she really hadn’t done anything, and was getting tired of people assuming she had. 

“Charming,” Jaha mused. 

“Jaha,” Gale interrupted, “you’re Stateside; you don’t have the authority to do any of this.”

“Art theft, as you know,” Jaha began, and Marcail reminded herself not to role her eyes as the man began to monologue.  “is an $8-billion/year business that funds racketeering and terrorism. My new department at interpol, which I created—”

“We should have sent a card!” Marcail burst, in faux dismay, and Gale nodded sadly. If they were going to be detained, they were going to be difficult. 

“We should have,” Gale agreed. 

“—intends,” Jaha continued, with a glare at them, “to choke off the money at the source. The Woods collection is a high-profile target, and here we have the most valuable piece in that collection, gone missing. And, what do you know, my favorite art thief on the premises.”

“Ex-art thief,” Marcail protested. “ _ Ex _ -art thief! Why doesn’t anybody take that seriously?” 

“Sometimes, Jaha,” Gale shrugged, “a coincidence is just a coincidence.”

Jaha huffed. “Not where Dianne Hume aka Stephanie Finch aka Jane Lear aka Marcail Kane is concerned.”

Marcail winced and was fixing Gale’s tie before he even turned to her.

“Wait, wait,” he shook his head, “Stephanie Finch? I thought I knew all of the aliases.”

Marcail straightened the knot on the front of the windsor, and patted his shoulders soothingly, “Now, darling, nobody knows all of them, not even me.”

“Excuse me,” grated Jaha, “can we get back to the point?”

“Hmm?” Marcail asked brightly and Gale frowned. 

“Oh. Sure.”

“The painting,” Jaha prompted, looking at Marcail accusingly. “ _ Ma Mystere _ . Valued at 5 million euro. Missing.”

Marcail nodded sympathetically. “I mean, I couldn’t hide a cocktail napkin in this dress, much less a painting so—”

“Which, by the way, looks just amazing on you,” Gale interjected.

“Oh, thank you,” Marcail beamed. “I got it in Paris, when—”

“Obviously,” Jaha’s voice was louder now, and he raked a hand over his face, exasperated, “you don’t have it on you. And you didn’t have time to get it off the grounds. So, where is it?”

“The thing about this is, Jaha,” Gale said repentantly, “you don’t have evidence on either of us about this.”

“Right. But, I can keep you here until I do get the proof.”

The man cocked his head and the suits stepped forward, with handcuffs. Metal closed around Marcail’s wrist and then the billiards table as Gale suffered the same fate, and then Jaha raised his hand in a salute, his goons following him out the door. 

Marcail made a face at it, and pulled a bobby pin from her updo; Gale took it and a moment later, the cuffs fell open. 

“This is your fault,” Marcail said, rubbing her wrists. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, oh no, I’m Gale Griffin, I must be involved on everything that’s going on, no matter—”

“Something ‘going on’, Marc?”

She clamped her lips shut. “You’re on his side; you think I stole it.”

“I’m not,” Gale opened the door, checking that they were clear before gesturing for her to follow him, “on anybody’s side.”

“Snatching it from a vault with no exit, no prep,” Marcail scowled. “What kind of amateur do you think I am?”

“The only way we’re getting Jaha off our case is to give him back the painting.”

“Difficult,” Marcail stepped under Gale’s arm as he held the next door open, “considering that I didn’t steal it.”

“Well, then, we find out whoever did take it, and we hand him over to Jaha.”

Charles Pike bought the undercover Interpol aliases a little too easily, and explained the security on the vault (only he knew the code, and there was an alarm on the painting that would be triggered were it ever moved from its mounting) and family drama (Roan was disowned years ago, so Lexa and Nia would split the insurance settlement); Titus let them upstairs to ‘commune with the lingering bits of Theo’s spirit’.

It was what they discovered, rather than what they were told, that made their investigation almost as good as an actual heist. 

Like the fact that the code at the safe (they pulled Pike’s prints with a bit of powder from Marcail’s compact), was different from the worn keys on the pad—meaning the safe combination Pike had entered was a different combination than the one Theo Woods had been using for the last 20 years. 

Or that, in Theo’s room, his glasses weren’t on the bedside table with a reading lamp or books, but by the printer, and the last job in the buffer was an alarm company printout of the times the vault was accessed—the first at regular intervals for his regular visits, but six irregular entries and exits on the day of Theo’s death. And the walker at the foot of the bed ruled Theo out as the frequent visitor.

Marcail set the readout down by the printer, her eyes falling on several bottles of pills beside the bed, suddenly uneasy. 

Gale’s expression matched her own. 

“Something made Theo Woods suspicious,” he began, making sure they were on the same page. “So he called up the vault entries, saw that someone else had been going in and out.”

“So he changed the alarm code,” Marcail finished. 

Gale nodded, grim. “And then conveniently died.”

The room seemed even quieter, in the wake of that. 

“This isn’t an art theft,” Marcail said quietly.

“It isn’t,” Gale strode from the room, step hastened, and Marcail fell quick behind him. “It’s a murder.” 

As they reached the base of the stairs, a familiar presence fell into step with them, and Gale nodded shortly. “Jaha, good; come on.”

“If this is an escape, it’s a remarkably poor one,” Jaha snarked, but didn’t stop them. 

“Woods was murdered by the same person who stole the painting.”

“Marcail murdered Theo Woods?” Jaha asked, and Marcaid didn’t think she needed to dignify that with a response. 

“He was on a fistful of medications,” she said, and they rounded the house, towards the backyard. “Nazaprine, achnofoline for his heart, and miridium as a blood thinner.”

She handed Jaha one of the pill bottles from upstairs. 

“Look at the prescription,” she turned it for him, pointing, “the date he died, count the pills; there are a dozen missing.”

Jaha chewed his lower lip. “Anyone could’ve stolen those.”

“Yeah,” Gale tilted his head up, counting windows to track which room they were standing behind. “Or someone could cut open the gel caps, take the medicine out, dump it in the glass Theo kept by his bed.”

“An old man dies,” Marcail said quietly, “no one checks, or thinks twice.”

“If it were me,” Gale finished counting, and leaned down unscrewing the cover off a downspout. Something clear rattled in the mesh, and he straightened, holding it towards Jaha. “I wouldn’t just throw away the empty gel caps.”

Jaha looked into the mesh, recognizing the capsules among the cover. “I’d flush them down the sink,” he agreed.

“Designed to dissolve in the stomach,” Marcail let out a slow breath. “They take two weeks two dissolve in water. Also, Woods was sure someone had gained access to the vault…”

“The killer would need constant access to get into the vault that number of times,” Jaha finished. “It’s a member of the household.”

“Okay,” Gale handed the cover to Jaha, who didn’t look thrilled to be holding it, but who wouldn’t drop it because they all knew he’d need the evidence. “So whoever was in the vault that day, that’s your killer.”

“You have an hour,” Jaha said, the words not coming easy. “If I don’t have a suspect in an hour, you’re both going down for this.”

Gale looked over at Marcail, and she lifted her chin. 

“Ah, I don’t need an hour,” Gale grinned, looking back at the interpol man. “I’ve got a Marc.”

Learning people’s secrets happened to be her specialty. 

As Miss Collins, Curator of the London Museum of Art, she found out that while Theo was slipping into a coma upstairs, Gina was having a screaming fight with Lexa over whether the position of curator was a necessary expense to the estate. 

As Catherine Deveraux, a UK Shareholder in Woods Industrial, she assured Lexa that they were in support of her position as CEO, and confirmed the fight with Gina. 

As Kayla Ferris, just another girl from the West Coast, she found out that Nia believed Theo was just moments away from proposing, which she knew, because she ran into Pike in the office, pulling all sorts of official documents up, but he made her promise not to tell.

As Agent Smith, of Interpol, she learned from Pike that Theo had no such plans to remarry Nia, but was actually planning on adding Roan back into the will. 

As Lady Covington-Smythe, overseas acquisition manager, she learned Roan’s tragic backstory: his father gave him private tutors, an apartment in Tokyo, art school in Paris, but he drank it away, was consequently turned out, landed on his feet, and started a contracting company. He’d been working on fixing the pool when he heard the scream of the maid who found his father. 

“Not sure,” Jaha shook his head, slightly dazed by the intel she’d gathered in less than thirty minutes, “who wants Woods dead out of that lot.”

“They all do, except one,” Gale lead them away from the crowd still milling; they ducked into a shed across the lawn. “Gina was about to lose her job, but if Woods died first, she’d get commission for selling the collection. Lexa needed Woods to die before he remarried Nia so she’d inherit her shares. Nia suspected those shares were soon to be split with Roan, who, by the way, is the only person without a motive.”

“Pike didn’t have a motive,” Jaha frowned. 

“Yeah, but Pike’s embezzling.”

Jaha blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Pike knew Theo wasn’t going to marry Eleanor, so why was he in that office pulling financial statements for Woods Instruments?”

“He’s embezzling,” Jaha agreed. 

“I’d forgotten how attractive that is,” Marcail sighed, “the ticking of you pulling apart someone’s well-laid plans.”

“Including yours?” Gale asked, and Marcail smiled. 

“Darling, you’ve never pulled apart my plans.”

“We,” Jaha interrupted emphatically, “are back at square one.”

“For the murder,” Gale shrugged, “but we’re here for an art theft.”

Jaha crossed his arms. “Okay. So?”

“So,” Marcail thought out loud, “they all alibi each other for the times someone’s in and out of the vault. If the same person who killed Theo stole the painting, then none of them did it.”

“Who’s left?” Jaha asked.

“What are you doing in my room?” Came a voice from the door.

At the same moment, Titus and all the guests in the shed seemed to notice a piece of canvas poking out from behind a door in the back of the room. 

“So,” Gale raised his eyebrows, “the butler did it.”

Gina was just about giddy with excitement when the canvas-covered painting was brought through the foyer of the building. 

“Miss Martin,” Jaha indicated towards the painting, and the curator’s hands shook as she removed the canvas. 

It was beautiful. 

A landscape, in gorgeous pastels, a field lined with towering evergreens, in a summer sunset. 

“ _ Ma Mystere _ ,” Jaha said reverently. “Can you be sure? Since it’s never been photographed or exhibited?”

“Thanks to Theo,” Gina looked at the inspector, then back at the painting. “I’m the world’s leading expert on precisely one artist.”

“Mettier,” Jaha encouraged, and the girl nodded. 

She stepped back, away from the painting, examining it with a critical eye. “Brush strokes are right,” she said softly, “texture on the oils, too. The color palette is consistent with his early works. He stretched his own canvas; those are his nails and I would have to do more tests, but honestly,” she broke off, a rush of emotion. “This is Mettier. The only one I haven’t seen before. It...it’s  _ Ma Mystere _ .”

Polite applause broke out, and Marcail joined them automatically. 

It was beautiful, it was, a masterpiece. A revelation. 

Jaha told Gina she could release the paintings to the buyers and they’d tag  _ Ma Mystere _ for evidence, and the party moved on, but Marcail couldn’t look away from the emerald trees and periwinkle sky of the painting.

“What is it?” Gale was beside her, his eyes on the painting and the room, but his attention on her.

Marcail, looked down, knowing she couldn’t explain it. “That’s not  _ Ma Mystere _ .”

His applause faltered. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice low.

“It’s complicated—”

“It’s not; Wood’s own curator thinks it’s legit.”

“That’s wonderful for her,” Marcail fought to keep her voice hushed, “But that’s not  _ Ma Mystere _ .”

“How could you possibly know that?”

She winced. “Um...”

“Did you try to steal it before?”

“No.”

“Did you actually steal it before?”

“No! It...it could be a Mettier, okay, but it’s not  _ Ma Mystere _ .”

She could feel Gale’s frustration. “Marc, there’s no photographs, no one has—”

“Look,” she clenched her eyes shut. “I know. Okay, I know. I just...I need you to trust me.”

He was silent for a long moment. 

“You’ve seen it,” he said at last. 

“Not exactly,” she said, and that wasn’t untrue. “Okay, if it’s not  _ Ma Mystere _ , how do we even know it’s a real Mettier?”

“In a perfect world you’d compare it to another Mettier...no.”

“We could prove it’s a fake if we—”

“Marc!” he interrupted, brown eyes shocked. “You’re not stealing a real Mettier.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing,” she appeased, “just borrowing, for a bit, to prove that painting is a fake.”

“No, yeah, I understand the logic, but I’ve just spent all this time proving you haven’t stolen that painting, and now you want to go and steal it, and another painting?”

“What I want is for you to take me at my word.”

It hung between them, not an ultimatum, but as close to it as the two of them ever got. She saw when he relented, the light in his eyes with a challenge. 

She saw it because she recognized it, knew it in hers. 

Twenty minutes, several million euros’ worth in paintings and some cleaning supplies later, Marcail felt the light in hers wane. 

The samples from the paintings matched. 

“They can’t match,” she whispered, staring in disbelief at the flames burning above the chemicals.

“Without stealing a chemistry lab,” Gale said, voice consoling, “it’s as close a match as we’re going to get.”

Marcail peeled off her gloves and stepped back from the paintings. “I was so sure,” she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so small. “So sure that it was going to be something else.”

The flames burned out and Marcail studied her cuticles. She was wrong, she guessed, it had to happen every now and then. The landscape was  _ Ma Mystere _ and that was that. 

“There is one other possibility.”

She looked up at Gale’s thoughtful voice. 

“The paintings match,” he said carefully, pointing between the two paintings, “so either that’s the real  _ Ma Mystere _ ...or that’s a fake Mettier.”

Marcail shook her head. “This came straight out of Woods’s collection; even if there were a fake in there, what’re the chances I happened to grab just the one?”

“Slim,” Gale said, then he looked up. “Very, very slim. We need to find Jaha.”

Jaha took their news—that Woods’ entire collection was fake—surprisingly well.

“Let me get this straight,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “The painting you spent all day convincing me you didn’t steal, you actually stole it. And another. And performed chemical tests on them, because you think the unseen, undocumented, under-lock-and-key painting isn’t right, and not only is that a fake, but every other Mettier in the collection, is also a fake?”

“That’s a very tidy summary,” Gale nodded.

“Arrest them,” Jaha muttered.

Marcail sidestepped one of the suits. “On what charge?” 

“Theft.”

“The paintings are right there,” Gale pointed.

“Obstructing an investigation.”

“We just stopped you from putting a butler—”

“Manservant,” Marcail interrupted.

“Sure,” Gale corrected, “Manservant, in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Jaha exhaled, simmering. “I don’t suppose I can arrest you for being annoying and crazy.”

“Yeah, no,” Marcail grimaced, “not a crime.”

“Not a crime,” Gale echoed.

Jaha looked heavenward. 

“Okay,” he sighed again, “Okay, okay, just say that you’re right? Do you know what it would take to replace every one of those paintings with a forgery?”

Gale shrugged. “For starters, you’d need an elderly victim.”

“Someone whose eyes are so shot that they won’t notice the difference,” Marcail thought of the strong prescription of the glasses by the bed.”

“He’d have to repaint every single painting in the house,” Jaha tested them. 

“So you’d need time,” Marcail nodded. 

“Months,” Gale agreed. “And a detailed knowledge of Mettier, plus access to all the paintings.”

“Most importantly,” Marcail was relieved to see Jaha was tracking, “you’d need to establish provenance. The ability to unequivocally declare that every one of these paintings is absolutely and undeniable legitimate.”

Jaha shook his head. “The curator.”

There were still guests milling around the lobby when they emerged from the billiards room again; Jaha cleared his throat. 

“Hey!” he called, and the chatter around the room quieted. “No chance that someone here spent the last few years secretly replacing every Mettier in the house with forgeries?”

There were the expected gasps of shock and confusion, and Lexa and Gina exchanged a perplexed look at the front of the house, where they were going over some invoices. 

Then Gina sprinted for the door. 

“Slick interrogation,” Gale muttered. 

“I didn’t think it would work,” Jaha protested.

“She’s getting away, guys,” Marcail chimed in. 

“I didn’t think it would work!” Jaha said again, as he and Gale ran after Gina. 

They didn’t get far before there was a scream. 

By the time they got to the pool, she was dead; blood staining the stones where she’d hit her head before slipping into the pool.

Marcail covered her mouth, and Gale walked her back to the lawn while Jaha dove in after her. Forgery was a crime, a serious one, but it didn’t merit death. And Gina—Marcail thought of the way her eyes had lit up when she talked about Theo, or the genuine affection with which she regarded the Mettier’s. 

She wasn’t Theo’s murderer; something wasn’t right. 

“Gale—”

“I know.”

She looked over to see his creased brow, mind working to find the missing link. Finally, his forehead eased. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I’m an idiot. Come on.”

They went down the stairs for the upteenth time that day, down to the vault.

“It’s the second alarm,” Gale said, stepping into the vault. “No matter how many times she came in and out, the alarm on the painting would sound.”

“She could fake all the paintings,” Marcail stayed in the entry of the vault, staring at the blank wall where  _ Ma Mystere _ had once hung, “but how could she get  _ Ma Mystere _ past that alarm?” 

“She couldn’t.” The soft voice was accompanied by the cocking of a gun, and Marcail lifted her arms as she turned. Everything made sense now. All the backstories, how Gina had gotten involved, the motive no one suspected, the skills no one had anticipated, all the answers lay in one person...

“Roan,” she greeted him. 

Roan shook his head. “Sorry, Lady Covington-whatever,” he said slowly. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Gale had gone silent, and she realized that he was hidden by the inner walls of the vault. 

“They’ll hear a gunshot,” she warned the younger man, stepping back into the vault. 

“It’s soundproof,” he said, gesturing to the safe. “Besides, most everyone has cleared out. Too much death; it freaks people out.”

“Art school in Paris?” she remembered aloud.

Roan smirked. “Wasn’t ever good enough to sell my own stuff. Turns out, I was more than adequate at copying other people’s. Steady profit for a while, too, but then the old man got sick...”

“You came home to scam some money, and there it was in front of you: an entire house full of valuable paintings.”

“There for the taking,” Roan agreed.

“Complete with its own curator,” Marcail said, her stomach clenching.

“Lonely curator.”

Marcail thought of the young woman who loved Mettier, who spent her last moments warning a man who didn’t deserve her love. She stepped further into the safe, wondering if she could get Roan to follow her before he noticed she wasn’t alone. 

“You think you’re smart,” he scoffed, “figuring all this out.”

“I’m smarter than you,” she took another step, willed Roan to follow, and when he did, she let out a breath. “Smart enough to not kill my partner.”

Gale lept from behind the door; the gun was knocked free and Marcail ran. There was a scuffle, and then she heard Gale’s step behind her, his voice calling for her to run. 

They were both pretty good at counting bullets by now. 

Roan lodged a bullet in the mahogany of the grand staircase upstairs, then shattered the wet bar in the entryway, and a couple more, but by the time they got to the billiards room, he was almost out. 

Marcail reached the room first, reached for the metal she knew was on the table, threw it to Gale and then crouched behind a leather armchair. Roan’s last bullet lodged in a velvet ottoman, and then he was handcuffed to the table, just in time for Jaha to burst in with his suits. 

He took a look around the room—Marcail behind the armchair, Gale leaning on a pool cue, Roan glowering from the table, the empty gun on the floor by him—and Jaha couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Anyone else in the vicinity you’d like for me to arrest for the same crime?”

Marcail shook her head, looking to Gale. 

“Nah, three’s our lucky number,” he twirled the pool cue in a salute as he crossed the room towards the exit. 

“You ever want to do this again,” Jaha called, and Marcail and Gale turned at the door, looking back at the scene, “Interpol is hiring. You can bring the art thief.”

“Ex-art thief,” Gale beat her in responding. He nodded at Jaha, and they left. 

In the hallways, Marcail realized her hand was held in Gale’s. She squeezed a bit, and he squeezed back. 

“I would have like to have seen it,” she said quietly. “Just to know.”

“I know,” Gale said, and squeezed her hand again.

Marcail frowned. “Where are we going?”

Down in the vault, they stared at the empty wall once more. 

“How does a forger defeat a two-tiered security system in less than an afternoon?” Gale asked, looking around the room.

Marcail pursed her lips. “He worked with what he had?”

Gale pulled her arm slightly, pulled her to him, kissed the tip of her nose. “Right. Roan was a contractor.”

Marcail’s jaw dropped as she stepped deeper into the room. The wall behind Ma Mystere...it was just a shade darker than the walls in the rest of the room. Fresher paint. “He built a false wall?”

“All he had to do was wait till after the auction; when Pike would’ve turned off the alarm. They could’ve come back anytime. Here stand back.”

Marcail stepped away, and Gale swung the pool cue. The plaster gave and he swung it again and a hole appeared and—there. There it was. 

_ Ma Mystere.  _

Marcail felt her breath leave her in a soft sigh. Beside her, Gale stepped to look at the painting. 

It wasn’t a landscape. 

It wasn’t pastel, it wasn’t greenery, it was a woman. Warm chestnut hair, olive skin, dark eyes, her head resting on her knees, face open and inquisitive. 

“I bared my soul to him,” Marcail said, memories floating back through the years. 

A summer in Paris. A young artist, desperate for a muse, a young girl, curious for adventure. Cheap wine and fresh grapes, hours of posing and then the result. The one perfect canvas, stretched by hand, heavy with oils he’d mixed himself, heady with memories. 

“You bared more than your soul,” Gale teased softly, admiring the painting. 

“He vowed it wouldn’t be seen by the world till after my death. He never even showed it to me, after he painted it, and then I wasn’t really tempted when I knew it was locked up. But now...”   

“Now,” Gale said, amused, “looks like we’re stealing  _ Ma Mystere _ after all.”

They hailed a cab, and Jaha would have been appalled at how easily an (ex) art thief and her boyfriend walked off the lot of an auction-turned-art-theft-turned-murder scene with a canvas wrapped in brown paper.

Back at the apartment, Gale laid the parcel carefully on the dining room table, and Marcail went to their room to change out of her dress. 

When she came back to the room, he had unwrapped the Mettier, and was staring at it, an appreciative and fond expression on his face.  

She coughed a bit, and he looked up, smiling slightly. He held out an arm and she went to him, ducking into his side and looking at the painting. 

“You’re very young here.”

“Couldn’t have been over twenty.”

“And very...”

“Naked,” she finished for him. “Yes.”

They looked at the painting for a moment longer, and Gale pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. “I think you look better now.”

Marcail snorted, but she moved in his arms so she was in front of him. She stared at him, staring at that painting of her. His blonde hair, tinged with gray, the delicate slope of his nose, the dip in his upper lip. When she moved up towards him, she felt, rather than saw, his mouth turn up in a smile. Her eyes slid closed, and she held her breath, always anticipating him. 

“Let me ask you this,” Gale whispered, interrupting, his mouth a breath away from hers. 

Marcail tilted her head, not wanting to open her eyes. “Hmm?”

“What do you,” he pressed a kiss to her chin, then along her jaw, “think happened this morning before you left?”

“Um,” Marcail blinked, focusing on forming words rather than his lips against her skin. “I gave you a ticket to a festival with your favorite genre of film, in your favorite city, and vanished in a mist of Jo Malone and mystery.”

Gale laughed, a chuckle that she felt through his chest rather than heard. “Is that what you thought happened?”

“It’s definitely what happened.”

“Hmm,” he backed away a bit, and she could feel the weight of his gaze. “That’s not what I remember.”

“And what do you remember?”

“You walked in, on a mist of Jo Malone and mystery, handed me a ticket to a festival that was too good to be true, and told me that I should, under no circumstance, follow you.”

Marcail’s mouth fell open. “I did not.”

Gale smiled, but didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at her. The corners of his mouth were turned up, content, proud. “Shoes,” he said.

Marcail frowned. “Shoes?”

“That’s how I knew you weren’t just giving me a day off. Those,” she felt a nudge on her shin and looked down to see Gale poking at her silver stilettos, “are your work shoes. High enough for fashion, short enough to run in.”

“You didn’t look at my feet,” she said, and it wasn’t an argument, but an invitation. 

“Didn’t have to. They sound different on a wooden floor.”

Marcail smiled then. “And the party? How’d you know where I’d be?”

“If you were wearing these, it meant an event, which meant catering. I called all the high-end caterers in town and found there was one party: an art auction.”

He looked so proud of himself, so pleased with himself and with her, and something in Marcail’s heart softened at the sight. 

“You know,” she said, running her hands up the lapels of his suit, “that brain of yours is very, very, sexy.”

“Ah, thank you,” Gale inclined his head. “How about the rest of me?” 

Marcail smoothed over the edges of the coat. “Ah, it’s a little beat up, but it has its charm.”

He did kiss her then, and even with a priceless masterpiece on the table, Marcail felt he was the most precious thing her hands had ever held. 


End file.
